


the bee made me shiver like a rag

by stereokem



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Asexual Spectrum, Clothes Kink, F/M, Fantasy, Longing, M/M, Masturbation, Moving On, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, but not really moving on, ghost story, haunted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:13:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28811736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stereokem/pseuds/stereokem
Summary: It has been 4 years since Hannibal left. Will has built a life in his absence, has filled whatever hole Hannibal left behind. He thinks he has successfully moved on—but an unexpected gift makes him question whether or not that is true.
Relationships: Molly Graham/Will Graham, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 9
Kudos: 55
Collections: MHBB2020





	the bee made me shiver like a rag

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from the poem "Soften and Melt" by Alicia Ostriker
> 
> This fic was written for Murder Husbands Big Bang 2020. I collaborated with the artist Mferret9 (tumblr, Twitter, and Pillowfort) who made some *amazing* art to accompany this fic. Check them out!
> 
> https://mferret9.tumblr.com/post/640746618147241984/murder-husbands-big-bang-2020

# I.

He comes across the scarf while digging through the closet in the master bedroom. He is looking for his waders, having stuffed them somewhere at the back of his closet ages ago and deliberately forgotten about them. It has been years since he last went fishing, and has thus had no use for them; but last week Walter, Molly’s son, had mentioned a passing interest in learning to fish, and Will had not been able to shake it from his mind.

Will is being foolish, perhaps. It truly had been a casual comment. Walter—who, after a year of Will and Molly dating, is finally becoming less standoffish and warming to Will— had lingered in the doorway of Molly’s kitchen, watching Will prepare their meal. He had watched Will skin and chop potatoes, steam broccoli, and prepare the salmon that Molly had picked up from the local market. He and Will had carried on a slow, awkward conversation, which had made Will more pleased than he wanted to admit. It meant that Walter, despite his initial dislike (or distrust) of Will, was trying.

“Mom said you used to do a lot of fishing,” Walter had said, eyeing the pink meat under Will’s knife as he carefully sectioned it into filets.

Will had nodded. “Yeah. I was a fly-fisherman.”

He had looked up then to see the expression on Walter’s face: the pre-teen version of piqued interest, which meant that his eyebrows had risen slightly but his expression had otherwise not changed. “Huh,” he said. “That’s cool. Conner’s dad takes him fly fishing most weekends in May.”

Will nodded, setting down the knife and seasoning the fish with salt, pepper. “You have to wait for the river to warm up. Fish don’t bite much in winter.”

Walter had shrugged at that and said, rather nonchalantly: “Sounds like it could be fun.”

Perhaps Will had imagined it, but he thought he detected something wistful in Walter’s tone. Will suspected it had mostly nothing to do with the idea of fishing, and more to do with Conner and his dad.

Will is still trying to navigate his relationship with Walter, to figure out how to connect with him. He is careful not to push Walter to engage—he has mostly let Walter come to him. But Walter’s interest—however fleeting—had stuck with Will. And somehow, he had gotten it into his head that he might teach Walter how to fish. That it could be something they do together.

Which is how he finds the scarf: digging through the recesses of his closet, looking for his fishing waders.

He is moving aside some old shoe boxes at the back of the closet when he finds it. A box, rectangular and thin; there is an Italian logo on the front that Will does not recognize. He is so caught off-guard that he does not even to consider being wary before he opens the box.

When he sees it, it feels like time slows around him.

The garment inside is forest green. It has the silky look of fine weaving; when he reaches into the box and runs his fingers carefully over it, the scarf feels softer than anything he has ever owned. He knows immediately that it is of fine quality, expensive.

It is not something he would have ever bought for himself.

His original search completely forgotten, Will slowly backs out of the closet. He goes over to his bed, folds one leg underneath him and sits down upon the edge. Carefully, he sets the box on the bedspread before him and lifts the scarf out; it unfolds like a green waterfall, releasing a scent that Will cannot identify. Without thinking, he presses the fabric to his face, closes his eyes and inhales:—

_The city of Florence floods his mind. He remembers walking the streets by the Arno, the sound of bells from the nearby basilica. He remembers entering the room with Botticelli’s Primavera, the beauty of the painting utterly lost on him, out-of-focus in comparison to the figure sketching at the bench before it. He remembers coming to sit by him, both of them watching the painting. He remembers turning, finally, and seeing that dangerous, crooked smile. In that moment, his ribcage had opened like a pair of wings, his chest so light he could barely draw in breath—_

Will opens his eyes.

It has been years since he has thought about Florence.

Will blinks, suddenly, and his bedroom swims back into view. He realizes that Winnie, his small blue-heeler mutt, is standing in the doorway, looking at him with her head cocked to one side.

Will lowers the scarf from his face. “Hey girl,” he tries to say, but it comes out unexpectedly rough. He clears his throat.

Winnie wags her tail and picks up each of her paws up in anticipation.

Shaking himself out of his reverie, Will sets the scarf back into its box. He unfolds his leg, shifting so that both feet on are the floor. He monitors his breathing for a moment (steady), before he rises from the bed and follows Winnie out the bedroom door. He can find the waders later.

# II.

He stands outside with the dogs longer than he intends to. It’s chilly, mid-October, and he had neglected to pull on any layers. The cold is good for him though, slows down the rapid pace of his mind, an easily overheated machine these days.

When he returns inside, he returns to his bedroom. Contemplates.

He is under no illusions. There are only a handful of ways that scarf could have ended up in his closet. Will is not now, nor has he ever been, a connoisseur of the rarefied—he would have never chosen the garment for himself. There is only one person who might have selected it specifically for Will and left it for him to find.

The question of “when” is both the most ambiguous and easiest to answer. Not recently; there would be more than just a scarf if it had been planted within the last couple of years. (A full suit. A body. Maybe several. Flowers. A bottle of wine. Dinner.) No, this is a relic from a lost time—from a time before Florence, when Will had actually considered running away willingly—

Will closes his eyes, taking a deep breath through his nose. It has been years. He can now wade through the present with an almost unnatural sense of calm—but the past is a different beast. Long buried. 

The memory of his own betrayal never fails to make something ugly twist in his gut. He isn’t always sure if it is shame, or merely the flesh memory of the linoleum knife. Whichever, another deep breath has it fading away into a dull twinge. He refocuses.

He considers, for a moment, calling Jack. After Hannibal had left and the FBI had launched its earnest—though fleeting and unsuccessful—manhunt for him, Will had been instructed to treat anything that Hannibal had left him as evidence. The scarf, though it has been unearthed years too late, qualifies. But Will hasn’t talked to Jack in as many years either; he has no desire to bring up old ghosts for the sake of something he may have never been meant to find. 

He looks down at the scarf, still laying in a crumpled heap in its box on his bed. He reaches out and picks it up, delicately, and it slides across his fingers like water. He considers. What if—

No. He determinedly clears his mind of the thought. Instead, he carefully folds the scarf and places it back in the thin box. He then places the box atop his dresser. He proceeds back into the closet to find his waders.

# III.

He pretends not to think about the scarf. It goes as well as he might have predicted.

On Wednesday, Will goes into Jay’s Mechanic shop for his regular shift. He has been working there for three years now, basically ever since he came back from Florence. It’s a small place, shabby, familiar, with its own kind of noisy peace. The other two mechanics, Kyle and Mitch, work on everything from cars to lawn equipment. Will works on boats and their motors.

He arrives at work dressed in his usual workman’s fair: jeans with grease stains, a flannel that he takes off almost immediately, a faded t-shirt from some local college. Kyle and Mitch both wear blue jumpsuits with name tags, but Will is only part-time, and he refuses to put on a jumpsuit unless he is going back to prison.

He thinks about the scarf while he works, thinks about its impossibly silky texture, the way it felt in his hands. He watches his hands work, grappling easily with the motor, smudged black with grease. They are rougher than they were four years ago. Too rough for something so fine.

He works, and thinks about the scarf, and about the dream he had last night—though he can barely call it a dream. It is more a memory that has been pulled through molten glass, distorted, composed of brief flashes of sound and smell and light:

_His eyes are closed, his own words ricocheting off the walls of his skull, echoing and fading into a silence that feels more suffocating than still. His body aches, every inch and crevice seeming to be sore. White-gold wintery sun streams through the windows and front door of his little farmhouse. He can smell dried blood, faint and mingled with the stringent scent of antiseptic; but these smells eventually give way to the scent of the fresh clothes that Hannibal had apparently wrestled him into, the slightly less-fresh smell of the sheets Hannibal had pulled over him. He hears the sound of warblers just outside his window, happy and heedless, the creak of the floorboards under Hannibal’s shoe as he steps out the door._

_He cannot see Hannibal’s face—_

He does not dream much, these days. He usually wakes in much the same state as he went to bed, mind empty. It has taken him three years, but he has finally mastered an untroubled sleep. Until now.

The dream is not new. He has had it before. He has never been able to see Hannibal’s face in it. In the original event, did he deliberately not look? Or did he simply refuse to encode that detail? He remembers everything else: Hannibal’s rough voice, murmuring about teacups and time. His own words, harsh and exhausted:

_“I miss my dogs. I am not going to miss you.”_

The only rules in the universe that Hannibal regularly obeyed were those of etiquette and of theatre. He would not resist such clear stage direction; it would be rude to ignore it.

Hannibal had not said anything in return. His response had been to simply rise from his chair and walk out the door. Exit stage left.

And he disappeared. Completely and utterly.

# IV.

In that first year, Will had done his best to erase Hannibal completely from his mind—with little success. The FBI had launched another manhunt for Hannibal, and Jack seemed to pester Will daily with questions: _Have you seen him? Has he returned?_ Right around the fourth month—when the trail on Hannibal had truly gone dry—Will stopped answering altogether. He cut Jack off. Still, for months, Will woke up in the middle of the night, wide awake, as if he had never lain down for bed. He sat up immediately and looked around his darkened bedroom, convinced that he wasn’t alone. That he could feel Hannibal in the room with him, and he might materialize out of the shadows if Will looked hard enough. Daylight had been little better. Whenever Will went into town, he saw glimpses of Hannibal—someone with a similar sharp smile, gait, set of the shoulders. For several months, every unanticipated sound was a knock at the door, a turn of the handle. Will lived on tenterhooks. He was _sure_ that Hannibal would come back, would one day appear on his doorstep with his mild-mannered, “Hello, Will”.

But Hannibal never reappeared.

This puzzled Will the most, for a time. Despite his gamble about drama and theatre, Will had expected some kind of resistance from Hannibal, some reluctance to let go.

He did not, at the time, anticipate that Hannibal would go so willingly.

A year went by before Will could finally believe that Hannibal was not coming back.

The revelation had not provided relief, as he thought it might. It did, however, seem to give him something akin to peace. Whatever restless thing in Will that had been kept alive by the thought of Hannibal’s return finally went still. The anticipation that he had been carrying around— which had thrashed and scratched at his insides for that entire year— dissipated, vanishing much as Hannibal himself had done.

Eventually, Will managed to package Hannibal into such a small and tight parcel that he could be shelved, unopened, along with Will’s memories of his father and mother. He did think about Hannibal— but only the kind of fleeting thoughts or memories that faded almost as soon as they arose. He had, to the best of his ability, mentally abstained. Moved on. Molly and Walter proved that. Will’s avoidance of Alana, Jack, and the FBI had proved that.

For possibly the first time in his adult life, Will had felt a pervasive and ensconcing sense of quiet. At first, it seemed almost a trance-like state, too calm to last; but then another six months passed. And then another. Two years after Hannibal left, Will began to wonder if, perhaps, this is what “normal” felt like. The more time that passed, the less tenuous it felt; he went about his life in a state of serene calm that did not vary from day-to-day. Meeting Molly, dating Molly . . . it had only proved that Will might, after all this time, have achieved what was for him remarkable: that is, an ordinary, unremarkable existence. 

There are many little secrets to his newfound serenity, one of which is keeping his hands from being idle. So, he works at the mechanic shop three times a week, teaches at a community college twice a week, does odd-jobs around town on weekends when he isn’t visiting Molly. He has taken up woodworking, having been unable to return to fishing without thinking of Abigail. His hands are seldom still. It allows him to keep from thinking. From watching. From anticipating.

It has now been four years. Four years of complete silence. Four years without a sound or a sign. For all Will knows, Hannibal could be dead.

All of this makes his discovery of the scarf— and his morose contemplation— a moot point.

# VI.

On Thursday morning, Will takes a long shower.

It is not intentional. Will has always taken rather quick showers. Growing up, his dad had never allowed him more than a few minutes before beginning to yell about wasting water. It shows in his adult ablutions: he scrubs himself thoroughly and efficiently, shampoos and conditions his hair methodically. He is generally done in less than five minutes.

However, another one of the secrets to his serenity is indulging himself when he feels distracted. And, so, upon occasion, Will has learned to accommodate longer showers.

Standing under the hot spray, Will brings a hand down to his groin. He’s half-hard already. He does not question why, but begins to stroke himself firmly. It will not take him long; this, too, Will is efficient with, so much so that it always feels less like an indulgence and more like briefly scratching an itch.

He typically does not think about anything when he masturbates—just focuses on the feeling. It has always been like this for him. He thinks he might be somewhere on the asexual spectrum: for most of his adult life his sex drive had been almost nonexistent, and not prompted by the usual soft, wet fantasies other men described. Dealing with horrific cases—first for the Baltimore PD and then for the FBI—had often diminished what little sexual interest he had. In the last three years, free from such influences, Will has come into what feels like a normal ebb and flow of sexual energy. At least, Molly has yet to complain.

Will strokes himself faster, paying attention to the droplets of water hitting his cock between each stroke. He enjoys sex with Molly, but he does not think about her when he masturbates. They fulfill two different objectives. The first, to be close to her, and to make her feel good; the second, to give himself some kind of release, free of other expectations. Here, he lets his mind go blank, completely focuses on himself—

Except, not quite.

He cannot help, as he slides his hand along his cock, thinking about the scarf. Its silky texture, its smell, its origin. The luxury of it is almost unbearable. He feels a flush creep up his chest, and he cannot be sure whether it is from his own ministrations or that thought alone.

He braces himself against the shower wall as he comes. His spunk hits the white tile and he moves so that it is immediately washed away by the shower spray. Once the evidence of his self-indulgence is gone, he shuts off the shower, steps out, and dries himself. He pulls on his underclothes and then exits the bathroom, going to his closet. He goes to his closet and carefully selects his attire for the day.

# VII.

Tuesday and Thursdays, Will trades in working as a mechanic for lecturing at Northern Virginia Community College. He began teaching there about two years ago, when someone—he cannot remember who, but he thinks it was Alana—forwarded him a job posting for an adjunct position, teaching Criminology and Criminal Justice. It was a temporary position—they were trying to fill it ASAP to meet enrollment demands in the coming fall—and Will knew that he needed an additional source of income. He was, apparently, the only person who applied for the job, because he was hired that fall. Two years later, he is still employed.

Again, Will had worried about being recognized—and he was. Difficult not to be, when regularly lecturing in front of 40+ intelligent adults. He is sure that at least a few of them recognize him, though he is still afforded the distinct pleasure of relative anonymity—or, at least, freedom from harassment. There are occasionally whispers when he first walks into the room, and a student has approached him once or twice after class to say, “You’re _the_ Will Graham, aren’t you?” But it seldom goes further than that. It has been years since Will was in the news; he likes to think that most of the students do not know who he is.

Will helps them in this. Just as he dresses deliberately for Jay’s Machine Shop, he selects his NVCC lecturer attire with care: he dons slacks, solid-color button-ups under a suit-jacket. No tie. It’s not a huge change from what he wore while teaching at Quantico, but he takes care to present himself with a much different air: he wears contacts instead of glasses, keeps his hair short, combed, and vaguely styled. He presents like a much more confident man: a proper university professor and not the mousy, mongrelly teacher he had been at Quantico and on the landing page of _Tattle Crime_.

Today, as he walks across the Loudon campus of NVCC to the building where he lectures, he wears very much a variation on this theme: dark grey slacks, blue button-up shirt, grey overcoat, scarf.

He finds himself reaching up to tug at this last item of clothing. He feels unnecessarily self-conscious about it. It is a solid grey number that he wears when the cold is really biting, though he had put it on without knowing if he would really need it. He had been standing in front of the slim, full-length mirror on his closet door, surveying himself when his gaze had drifted to the slim box still sitting on his dresser.

He had contemplated wearing the Italian-made scarf to work.

It was a stupid thought, though not as fleeting as he would like. If he is completely honest with himself, he had been thinking about wearing it ever since he had found it Tuesday evening. He easily dismissed wearing it to his mechanic job, but it was more difficult to find a reason to not where it to campus. In the end, he did not have a solid rationale; he simply went back into his closet to find his own, perfectly serviceable but not luxurious scarf, wound it hastily around his neck, and went out the door.

He had felt strangely about it the entire drive to campus. When he arrived, he sat in the parking lot for almost five minutes, car turned off, trying to decide whether he should take it off.

In the end, he left it on. It now scratches at his throat, rougher in texture than he ever remembered. As he joins the flow of students walking towards the building, he reaches up to adjust it again. It feels wrong now, in a way it didn’t before.

Disdainful.

Will feels his face flush immediately at the realization. It feels wrong because he chose it over the scarf Hannibal had left.

He had slighted Hannibal’s gift.

As soon as he enters the building, he unwinds the scarf from his neck, clutches it in his hand. He feels less constricted now, but there is still something unsettling sitting in the pit of his belly. He tries to shake it off as he walks down the hall and enters the auditorium where his lectures are held. He sets the scarf down next to his messenger bag, shrugs off his overcoat as he watches students mill in. A couple of them give him tired greetings and smiles. He nods in return before going to the computer to set up for lecture.

Once the students are settled, he dives right in. As he lectures, he catches himself repeatedly reaching up to rub the back of his neck, where an itch still sits. He tries not to scratch— but the irritation persists, creeps from his neck down his back, around his middle, across his chest, back up his throat. As the day progresses, he finds himself shivering, unable to shake the feeling of something foreign crawling under his skin.

\---

He decides to leave work early. Evan, his TA, tells him he doesn’t look well—flushed and twitchy—so Will packs up his things at 3 P.M. Puts on his coat, gloves. Slings the strap of his messenger bag over his shoulder.

He leaves his scarf at his office, shoved into a drawer.

# VIII.

Will is halfway to the parking lot when he sees him.

Will is mostly looking straight ahead, trying to avoid eye contact with anyone. He is wrapped tight in his coat, head ducked slightly against the wind that had picked up over the course of the day. He hefts his messenger bag on his shoulder and blinks—

And sees something on the edge of his periphery—

His feet stop moving. His blood feels like ice in his veins.

A man is standing about forty feet ahead of him, looking out over one of the intensely manicured ponds. His back is to Will. He is wearing a camel-colored coat and a brown hat. There is nothing about him that Will should recognize—but he does.

He _does._

It’s in the set of his shoulders. His firm stance. The way he looks perfectly at home but also distinctly out-of-place. Even the cut of his coat—from this distance, Will cannot make out the details, but he can see that it is tailored in a manner that is all too familiar to Will.

Will’s feet jump back to life, and he stumbles forward. His heart is racing, and he can hear it in his ears. It’s him. Will can _feel_ it in his fingertips. _It’s him._ His feet carry him forward, closing the distance—

A harsh gust of wind whips suddenly across the manicured campus, so intense that it blurs Will’s vision for a moment. He blinks, his eyes watering, and he is getting closer now, close—

The man brings a gloved hand up to his head to keep his hat from flying off. Something about his movement feels like a punch to Will’s chest.

He feels his steps slow as he drawers near.

When the wind dies down, the man calmly removes his hat. He reveals a head full of chestnut hair, peppered with grey. Wavy.

Will does not need to see his face. He knows.

_Not Hannibal._

His heartbeat has already begun to slow, but the frantic adrenaline-fueled weight of it is transforming into something hot and heavy, like a led weight.

He draws closer, his pace slower. He catches a glimpse of the man’s profile—nose too large. And, now that he is passing him, everything about the man’s stance has shifted. Nothing is right.

Will feels extremely foolish.

\---

He makes it to the parking lot in a daze. He gets in his car but does not turn it on. He sits there for a long time, looking at the dashboard, unseeing.

This hasn’t happened to him in a while.

He had stopped looking for Hannibal. He had trained himself not to look. He kept telling himself that Hannibal was not coming back.

And he had believed it. Still believes it, semantically.

He dismissed Hannibal. Told him to leave.

And Hannibal, graciously, had done as he was bid.

He could be in Italy, now. Florence. Rome. He could be in Spain. Germany. Argentina. China. He could be dead.

In the end, there is now way of knowing.

# V.

Once will makes it home for the evening, he texts Molly. They are in the habit of trading what she calls “maintenance texts”: _Hi, how was your day? Rough? Are you feeling all right?_ _Tell me about it._ It feels so utterly normal to him, so safe and unremarkable. It is a feeling that he craves.

She complains about her day—running her father’s hunting lodge, helping with Walter’s homework, even though the math is getting to be beyond her. She asks how Will is, how was school.

He pauses with his thumb over the keyboard of his phone. He considers.

He thinks about the moment that he _knew_ the man standing at the bridge was Hannibal.

 _Fine,_ he texts her. _It was a good day._

# IX.

Will dreams again that night. He relives the memory of Hannibal’s departure.

This time, he struggles to see Hannibal’s face. He tries to shift the shadows and the light, turn Hannibal’s dark silhouette into something with human features. But he can’t. He only speaks to this shadow, his words muddy in his mouth.

_“I am not going to miss you.”_

He wakes up with the taste of them still on his tongue, acrid as battery acid.

It is early. The sun has not risen. Will looks into the dark corners of his room, into the places where shadows take on new shapes.

He does not see Hannibal there; but he wishes he does.

\---

Will works in the machine shop that day. He works half days on Fridays, in the winter: fewer boats to work on in the off season. There are no boats that day, but he helps Kyle out with a car that needs its timing belt replaced. It keeps his hands busy, and for that he is grateful. 

Right around noon, as he is about to leave work, Molly texts him. He pulls out his phone on the way to the car, opens the message:

_Hey handsome. Just checking that we’re still on for tonight?_

Friday, their customary date night. He texts her back without thinking.

_Yeah. Pick you up at 6:30._

\---

Normally, when he gets home from a half day of work, he goes to his shed for some wood working. (He’s got a table that he needs to finish, made on commission, the legs intricately worked with vines.) But his hands feel stiff today, almost arthritic. He feels tired in a way he hasn’t in years. He shucks off his grease-stained work clothes, goes up to his bedroom, and slumps into bed. He stares at his jeans, lying in the doorway, where his phone peaks out of one of the back pockets.

Friday night was always date night. Generally, they had dinner at Molly’s—she didn’t like to leave Walter on his own, and she wanted to give Will a chance to get to know him—but Walter would be at a friend’s this evening. So, in order to make the most of it, Molly had made reservations at restaurant in town—a place called the West Front. Will had never been, but Molly had; when he asked he what he should wear, her only instructions had been to wear a jacket.

Now, lying in bed, the idea of getting up later and putting on clothes seems almost insurmountable. His chest clenches painfully at the thought. He does not want to go out. He wants to burrow himself deeper into the covers and drift but not dream. He wants his body to become light and his mind to be filled with total blackness.

Mostly, he does not want to think of Hannibal.

# X. 

He lays in bed all afternoon. At some point, he must drift off to sleep, but no dreams greet him. He wakes to see late afternoon sunlight streaming through his windows. He eventually gets himself out of bed around 5:10.

He drags himself to the bathroom. He shucks his dirty clothes and turns on the shower. He steps into the spray and begins to bathe himself somewhat lugubriously. His mind feels as though it is buzzing with white noise, head so full but also so empty. At one point, his hands drift down to his groin; he gives his cock a single stroke, shivers at the feeling of it—but stops short of paying it any more attention. He suddenly has a thought that makes him flush all the way down his chest.

When he gets out of the shower, he towels off and dries his hair methodically. He then goes into the bedroom and begins selecting clothing. He puts on briefs, a white undershirt. He then goes over to his dresser, takes the green scarf out of its box, and lays it on the bed.

Will takes time dressing himself in a way he hasn’t in years. He peruses the meagre offerings of his wardrobe, pondering. He selects a set of garments that are both familiar and foreign to him.

He takes his selections from the closet and lays them on the bed next to the scarf. Then, he dresses.

Will does not take care with his looks much these days. He owns only one full length mirror, a cheap Wal-mart brand number that Molly had bought and installed so she could check her reflection when she stayed over. Will has seldom looked into it himself. Now, he watches himself come together in the cheap plastic surface, watches as he transforms himself from something unremarkable into something sleek, coiffed. He takes a comb to his hair, wets it with pomade. He recreates an image of himself that he has been hiding from for years.

He grooms himself as he once did, when he was trying to ensnare Hannibal. He thinks even now of Hannibal’s approval, of Hannibal’s eyes taking him in and understanding that this new care is for his benefit. He images Hannibal smiling.

The scarf is the last item he puts on.

\---

He arrives at Molly’s right at 6:30. He parks his car in her driveway, walks up to the lodge, and knocks on her door.

When Molly opens it, she greets him with a smile that immediately turns into a look of surprise. “Wow,” she says, eyebrows raising, “you look . . . _really_ nice.”

Will feels himself blush. “You told me to wear a jacket.”

Molly grins. “Yeah, but now _I_ feel horribly underdressed.”

She steps back a little so Will can see that she is wearing a simple blue dress. There is nothing wrong with what she is wearing; the dress gives Molly a girlish air, a playfulness that Will appreciates. However, even he can see that this dress does not compliment his own look. He flushes even more at this faux pas of his.

“I think you look—”

Molly cuts him off by putting her hand on his arm and dragging him over the threshold. “Come in, let me get changed.”

“But—”

“I won’t be a moment! Just gotta make sure you don’t show me up.” She grins cheekily back at him as she trumps back upstairs, leaving Will standing in the warm living room.

Molly takes maybe ten minutes to change. When she comes back down, she is wearing a soft brown knit dress that hugs her curves, paired with black boots and black stockings. A black belt with a large buckle and gold jewellery complete the look. She has put her brown hair up into an elegant bun. They look much more of a pair, now. Elegant, even.

“Ready?” she asks, making it to the bottom step.

Will nods.

\---

The West Front turns out to be a large, warmly lit restaurant whose décor suggests that it is straddling the line between semi-fine and casual dining. When Will and Molly enter, they are immediately greeted by a hostess who asks for their reservation and offers to check their coats. Will removes his outer coat, but halts when he brings his hands up to the scarf.

Molly, who had removed her own coat, looks up to see what had stopped Will. “Oh,” she says in some surprise, “is that new? The scarf.”

Will’s hands nearly jerk. He breathes deeply through his nose and removes the scarf, folding it carefully before placing it in the inner pocket of his coat. “Mm,” he says in response. 

The West Front contains two levels, with smaller, more intimate seating on the balcony that lines the large dining room. Will and Molly are led to a table in the middle of the dining room. Perhaps he imagines it, but Will thinks he can feel people watching them. As he and Molly take a seat, Will looks around: the other tables are largely occupied by couples, although there is a family or two. Most of them are wearing nice but casual clothing; Will and Molly are easily two of the best-dressed people in the room. And, as he surveys the room, he finds himself surveyed back: people are indeed watching them.

Will tries not to blush as their waiter comes by to fill their glasses with water and leave them with menus. He suddenly feels very overdressed.

Across the table from him, Molly smiles and wiggles a little in her chair as she looks at the menu. “I feel so fancy,” she says conspiratorially, and then she laughs, apparently at herself. “God, I need to get out more.”

Will returns her smile; though it is lacklustre, Molly does not seem to notice. Will looks around again; perhaps they are a little overdressed for this place. Molly looks lovely and chic in her ensemble, though seems a little less at ease in this outfit than she does in jeans and boots. Will himself is wearing a charcoal grey suit with a crisp white shirt and black tie. He knows that he looks sleek, coiffed. Perhaps even quietly refined.

He suddenly has the thought that he would never be overdressed for anywhere Hannibal would take him to dinner.

The thought sits with him, disquiets him so much that he picks a wine at random from the menu when the waiter returns to take their drink order. When the woman has walked away, he cannot even remember what it was he ordered. Molly chats a little at him as she peruses the menu and Will makes all the appropriate noises of agreement. But he is caught up in thought, drifting.

He has deliberately not thought about it: what it would have been like to run away with Hannibal. But now, as he sits there, the room around him disappears, fades and morphs. The voices around him change, the syllables they speak becoming sharper, more lyrical.

And, across the table from him is not Molly, but Hannibal.

He looks just as he always has: a calm, thoughtful predator wrapped in the apparent safety of a three-piece suit. His face betrays almost no emotion; even the micro-expressions which often graced his features were absent. He was so still, so dispassionate looking that he could be made completely of stone.

All except for his eyes. Hannibal’s eyes drank Will in with a warmth that felt like pure danger, pure delight. It makes Will’s chest clench deliciously. Hannibal’s gaze feels both like praise and anticipation.

Will remembers how Hannibal had looked upon him when they met in Italy. He remembers how it had felt to finally lay eyes on Hannibal, after nearly a year. How he did not begrudge Hannibal for gutting him—not even for killing Beverly, for killing Abigail— how none of that was present in his mind when he finally saw Hannibal’s face.

It was present later, of course.

Will does not know if he will ever forgive Hannibal for those deaths. For taking Beverly and Abigail away from him—for taking part of Will with him. (What’s more: he cannot forgive himself for momentarily forgetting all of these things when he first laid eyes on Hannibal in Italy.)

But he also knows that he cannot quite blame Hannibal, the same way one cannot blame a wild animal for mauling one’s flock: Hannibal has always acted according to his nature.

Will misses him.

The thought hits him so forcefully that it rips him out of his fantasy. He blinks, and he is back in the West Front with Molly. There is a plate of food in front of him. They are halfway through dinner and he is actually speaking, carrying on one half of a conversation as if his mind had not been completely elsewhere.

The waiter comes by once again and asks if either of them would like more wine. As Will looks up at her, he catches sight of something behind her shoulder that gives him pause.

He can see several of the small tables on the upper level. A waiter has just approached one occupied by a single figure, a man in a black dinner jacket. His back is to Will, but Will catches a brief glimpse of his profile when he looks down at the menu—

Will deliberately drags his eyes away. He knows what he wants to see. It’s not him.

# XI.

By the time Will and Molly walk out of the West Front, it is just after 8:30. Molly wraps herself against Will as they walk back to the car, bracing herself against the cold.

“That was really nice,” she said. She sounds a little loose, having had two very healthy glasses of white wine with dinner. “I wouldn’t mind doing that a little more often.”

Will murmurs in agreement as they get into the car. Though he is distracted, he still manages to maintain a decent conversation with Molly as he drives back towards her place.

When they finally pull up to Molly’s house, she leans over and kisses him. He goes along with the kiss, but does not take his hands off the wheel.

When Molly pulls away, she looks slightly flushed and her eyes are dancing. “Any interest in coming inside?” she asks flirtatiously, her intention clear.

Will considers for a moment. He considers saying yes, going upstairs with Molly and losing himself in her warmth, in focusing his energy on her, and curling into her afterwards.

But he can feel the green scarf curled around his neck like a promise. He does not want to be with her. He just wants to go home.

“Not tonight,” he says finally. Then: “Sorry, I’m just pretty tired.”

She smiles lopsidedly, understanding. “Hey, it’s okay. I’ll tempt you some other night.”

He cannot help but smile; Molly has never pushed him to do anything, and for that he has always been grateful. He leans over and kisses her chastely, and feels her smile against his lips. 

# XII.

When Will gets home, he does not turn the lights on.

His dogs, having settled down before Will left, stir only a little when he comes through the door. Winnie is the only one who gets up, and just walks him to the stairs leading up to his bedroom before returning to the dogpile on the hearth.

Will takes his heavy overcoat off as he enters his bedroom. He lays it across the one chair in the room, just barely illuminated by the silvery moonlight peaking through the window. Most of the moonlight shines on the bed, making it glow eerily. The rest of the room is bathed in deep shadow. 

Will stands before his bed. Carefully, he removes the scarf from around his neck and sets it on the bedspread. He then reaches up and begins undoing his tie.

Will gets undressed slowly. Each item of clothing comes off with unusual care but is discarded with indifference. The tie falls to the floor, as does his crisp white shirt and undershirt. He unties and toes off his shoes, unlatches his belt, lets his trousers fall to the floor. It is only when he is standing in nothing but his briefs that he lays down on the bed.

The air in the bedroom is chilly—difficult to heat this house in the winter—but he does not burrow himself under the covers. Instead, he lays atop them, and reaches down to pick up the scarf that lays beside him.

It is so soft in his hands. He brings it to his face and inhales: still that strange scent that was both foreign and familiar. He sighs, closing his eyes. He lets the scarf lay over his face, covering it, blotting out the dim moonlight that peaks through his bedroom window.

The first brush of his fingers across his dick sends a chill down his spine. While he was getting undressed, he could feel himself harden, his arousal brought on by a thought that he would not fully acknowledge. He does not acknowledge it just now, but instead revels in the feeling. He cups himself through his briefs, inhales the scent of the scarf. 

He seldom does this, seldom takes the time to do this slowly. He masturbates most often in the shower, perfunctory, quick. Now, he takes his time, pushing the flat of his palm against his clothed dick, letting out a huff of air at the feel of the cotton against the sensitive flesh. It isn’t long before he is shucking his briefs as well, spitting into his palm, and dragging his hand along his shaft, slowly.

He groans, and it’s almost too loud in the quiet. Somehow, the idea of doing this alone, in the privacy of his bedroom is more obscene than the idea of doing it where someone else could see. Where someone might deliberately watch.

He expects himself to think, then, of Molly; but the scent of the scarf, spicy and exotic, fills his nostrils. He thinks instead of dark, brown eyes that seem almost maroon in certain light.

He gives another groan, and this time the silence surrounding him does not swallow it up. This time, the sound of his own voice makes him hotter, makes his skin flush. He swipes his thumb over the head of his cock, smearing his precum and making for a wetter slide of his hand. He can feel his nipples harden in the chill air.

And, suddenly, it feels like it had all those years ago, when Hannibal had first disappeared, when Will saw him around every corner, when Hannibal’s presence would not leave him alone— Will could _feel_ Hannibal in the room with him. It was as if he was sitting in the armchair in the corner of the room, quietly watching. Will imagined him, the crisp lines of his three-piece suit, the bold pattern of his tie, the way he seemed so solid and immovable. Will had always sensed, intrinsically, that Hannibal was built like a predator; the suits both hid and accentuated that fact. Hannibal had dressed to both conceal and show off the darkest parts of himself. He had wanted to dress Will that way too.

That’s what the scarf was. The first of many gifts. Gifts, now, that will never be given.

The next moan that escapes Will’s throat comes out choked, nearly like a sob. He can still feel Hannibal’s eyes on him, watching him in the dark. He wonders what Hannibal would do if he ever saw Will this way. Would he think Will base and wanton? Would he think it vulgar? Would he simply watch with the same hungry curiosity that he watched Will do everything else?

_Would he enjoy it?_

Will gasps and squeezes his cock. _God._ Three more quick strokes and he’s coming, sticky wet between his fingers, dripping onto his abdomen.

He lays there for a moment, the mess cooling on his skin as he breathes through the thin material of the scarf. He tries to grasp the scent. It does not smell like Hannibal.

Or, perhaps, now, after three years, he is finally forgetting what Hannibal smelled like.

# XIII.

He lays in bed like that for several minutes, semen cooling on his belly. When he can bear it no more—when the chill of the room is too much for his naked skin—he gets up.

He cleans himself with a wet cloth in the bathroom, washes and dries his hands. Then, he goes to his wardrobe, puts on a fresh undershirt, pajama bottoms. He puts on socks, even. He thinks he might go downstairs and have a whiskey, maybe sip it on the front porch.

Before going downstairs, Will returns to the bed. He gently picks up the scarf—unsullied by his activities— and folds it with his newly clean hands. He feels his cheeks pinken looking at it, and he isn’t sure if it’s shame or something else altogether.

He turns back to his dresser, to place the scarf neatly back in its box. Before he lays the soft fabric down, he sees something.

It’s a card. He had missed it before—it was face-down, the same color of the box; camouflaged. Curious, he picks it up and turns it over, in his right hand, laying the scarf down with his left.

There are words inscribed on the card in black ink. Will would know that tight but elaborate scroll anywhere.

_Hannibal._

But the words written there are in Italian, and there aren’t enough homologues for Will to decipher what it says.

Before he can think about it, Will pockets the card. He grabs his phone and throws back on his overcoat before he heads downstairs.

In his dark kitchen, he makes himself a whiskey, neat. Then, with the dogs crowding excitedly around him, he opens the door to the front porch, letting them all spill outside.

He follows, tumbler of whiskey dangling from his fingers. The night is colder than he remembers, colder than when he arrived home. The moon is high and gibbous, bathing everything in a strange silvery light. Will shivers, and takes a sip of whiskey, watching the dogs mill about in the yard. He settles himself in a large rocking chair that he had built a year ago.

Then, he sets his whiskey down on the floorboards next to him, and pulls out both his phone and the card.

It takes him only a few minutes of internet searching to find it.

Hannibal had written two lines from an opera—Gluck’s _Orpheo y Eurydice_. Will finds a site with an English translation, and feels his mouth go dry.

_No, mia vita: ombra seguace  
Verrò sempre intorno a te._

_No, my life: I will always come after you  
Like a haunting shadow._

Will blinks hard. His eyes feel hot, welling, and his chest is constricting as though being squeezed by searing hot metal. He looks desperately out into the cool night, into the silvery darkness, trying to breath, welcoming the icy air into his lungs. He tries to breathe normally, breathe steady. His body feels fragile, trembling.

 _God_.

Will sits back in the rocking chair, drawing his knees up to his chest. He holds his phone and the card in one hand, the other coming to cover his face. He breathes raggedly into his palm.

The hand on his face grows wet.

# XIV.

On Sunday, Will finds his waders.

They were not in his closet, as he thought they might be, but in the garage, put in a box that was balanced across the ceiling slats. He pulls them down and shakes the dust off of them. The box contains his old fly-tying gear, and he sets about dusting that off too. He takes his fly-tying gear to the shed where all of his projects have moved to. He tries his hand at making a lure, simple, for trout. It feels almost like it used to, and the lure he ends up with is not half bad.

\---

On Friday, Will and Molly have dinner.

It’s a simple affair this time. Walter is present and, as usual, hangs around in the kitchen while Will cooks. They chat a bit about some prank Walter’s school friends played on a teacher—not a mean prank, rather, one that had even the teaching joining in on the laughter. Will finds himself chuckling as Walter describes it.

During dinner, Will looks up often to see Molly watching him. She’s been dropping hints all evening, and her gaze is flirtatious. As always, she isn’t demanding, but asking. He tries to answer her. He gives her small, amused smiles across the table when Walter is occupied with the food or something he is saying. He tries to see her for the beautiful, alluring woman that she is.

But, when he looks at her across the table, all he sees is meat.

He sees the plumpness of her cheeks when she smiles, and imagines the muscle and fat cooking over a skillet. He sees her breasts, and wonders how they might be cooked. When she gets up to bring the wine bottle to the table, he sees her thighs, and thinks of the dishes Hannibal described to him a lifetime ago: long pig.

After a while, Walter finishes his plate and excuses himself to go watch TV in the living room. When he is suitably occupied, Molly folds her arms and leans on the table, the posture making her breasts inviting.

“You didn’t eat much.”

Will tears himself away from the image of Molly’s liver searing in a pan and looks down at his own plate. He’s pushed his greens around, eaten a bit or two of the pork. He doesn’t remember eating so little. He looks back up at her.

There’s a different look in her eye now, not flirty but thoughtful. “Something on your mind?”

Will looks at her. He wills himself to see her, the person.

His eyes drift behind her: the coat rack, her red parka nestled next to his charcoal grey coat.

The silky, forest green scarf peaking out of one of the pockets.

\--- 

When Walter goes to bed, Will heads upstairs with Molly. They make love quietly, Will paying Molly all of his attention, making her gasp and moan silently. When they are finished, they curl up together, Molly to Will’s back. Will stares at the slit in the window curtains, looking for a bit of moonlight.

Though it is Molly that he is holding in his arms, Molly that he has just made love to, he thinks of Hannibal. He thinks of Hannibal’s face the last time he saw it, the golden afternoon light playing on his face. He thinks of his own words. Of his dismissal.

_Why had Hannibal left so easily? Why hadn’t he protested? Why hadn’t he stayed?_

_Why has he left Will alone all these years?_

Will blinks. It has begun to snow outside.

Molly gives a warm sigh and nestles further into Will. He holds her tighter in his arms, blinking back the tears welling in his eyes.

He tells her he is going to take Walter fishing in the spring.

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Don't forget to check out the artwork for this fic!  
> https://mferret9.tumblr.com/post/640746618147241984/murder-husbands-big-bang-2020


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